


His Wish

by FairyLights101



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon Compliant, M/M, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-12
Updated: 2019-12-12
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:13:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21769678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FairyLights101/pseuds/FairyLights101
Summary: This is your last chance, Widogast. You could bring your parents back. The whole reason you started down this path, the whole reason you wanted to bend reality to your will.
Relationships: Mollymauk Tealeaf/Caleb Widogast
Comments: 5
Kudos: 87





	His Wish

_ “What would you say if I told you that you could reshape reality? What would you do to be able to do that? What would you give up, Bren?” _

_ “I would give everything.” _

Caleb turned the pages of his spellbook one once more, pouring over the spell for the umpteenth time. There was no need. He could recite the spell backwards, in Celestial no less, at this point. But he flicked the page anyways, scanning the arcane words etched into the pages with the glittering, ever-shifting ink. It was such a simple spell, in many ways. It required no movement, not a single component. Just a few simple words and a powerful intention, and anything would be possible. 

_ Well, almost anything.  _

There was always a chance. The chance that things would fail, as things so often did. And he could not afford that. His eyes drifted to the crystals and knife laid out beside the book, candlelight shivering off their surfaces. Caleb sighed and leaned back, sooty fingers pressed to his temples. “You are insane, Caleb Widogast.” 

Only the quiet rattle of wind on windows met that. The others were far away -- too far to find him before things were done. It was only he and Frumpkin and those crystals waiting upon him, his dear old friends. Caleb flicked another page and stared at the final words of the spell scrawled out before him.

_ “If you could wish for anything, what would you wish for?” _

A litany of things. A list so long that it wasn’t remotely possible to complete. A list that had stayed static for so long, the same three goals set in stone -- and then Mollymauk had come in and turned his world on its head.

And then Mollymauk had died. Time had passed. He’d stayed dead.

Caleb dug his nails into his palm and sucked down a breath. He shook his head and stood, chair grinding against the wooden floor. “You have waited long enough, Widogast.” Now was not the time to mope. Now was the time to get to work. 

He shucked his coat off and tossed it on the back of his chair. The bandages unraveled, one slow loop at a time, until the scarred, pale skin beneath was exposed. Sleeves were rolled up. The skin was prepped, more out of ritual than any sort of care. A cloth drenched with water, long since gone cold dragged across his skin, then another, soaked with alcohol so strong the scent stung his eyes and nose, and Frumpkin’s tail flicked with distaste. He ground it into his skin until it prickled and burned red. 

He took the pitcher of alcohol and poured it over the blades as well, alcohol splattering onto the ground. The knives went into the fire next, sitting amongst the crackling flames until stained with soot and glowing, and Caleb came back to himself with a start, screams echoing in his ears. He wiped the soot from the blades, then passed over them with more alcohol, sizzling as it hit the hot metal. 

And then everything was ready. He couldn’t find any more time to waste. 

The table had a spread of items on it: three knives, freshly cleansed; two lengths of thick cording; spellbook, ink glittering in the firelight; a dozen crystals. For a moment he stilled and counted everything under his breath. Once. Twice. Three times before he came back to himself. 

Caleb took one length of cord and looped it around his left arm. He was out of practice, doing it alone, but after a few stumbles and much tugging, he had a decent tourniquet bound across his bicep. The crystals shimmered beneath his fingers, and energy sparked through his skin, setting the nerves alight. Caleb’s hand froze as hunger swelled in his stomach, rising to choke his throat and leave him shaking as he stared at the crystal. 

_ How long?  _

How long since he had held one of these crystals, since he had tasted such power and had it so close, nearly on the tip of his tongue? He knew how long. Knew  _ exactly _ how long, down to the hour. And all that time between the first crystal, the last, and these he held.  _ Your intentions changed. What happened to your first Wish? What happened to your parents?  _

But his mother and father were better off in death. He could bring them back and explain what he’d done, and they’d only hate him for it. And placing them back in time, when they died, wouldn’t be much better. It could tear apart reality for all he, or anyone else for that matter, knew. 

The scholars who had written about and studied Wish had written as much. Though, if any  _ had _ changed the past, either no records remained, or it had blended that seamlessly. Or perhaps altered the lives of all who followed. An interesting conundrum. But also one that could leave thousands dead, if he went back and changed a single thing. If he Wished Trent dead before their training and indoctrination had started. If he Wished Trent into a better, kinder person, one who wasn’t so corrupted, who wasn’t willing to murder innocent people. If he Wished some common fucking sense into his idiotic self and turned tail and ran at the first sign of danger. If he Wished himself dead. 

People would die. All those he’d saved and helped save -- they would die too, if he altered the shape of time and how things had played out and led him to this moment. But some wrongs could be righted. Mollymauk could live, as he should have. As he deserved to. 

Caleb sucked down a deep breath and picked up one knife. Pressed the blade to the welted skin of his inner arm. Dug the blade in. The pain prickled through his nerves as the blood welled up, burning bright red against pale flesh. He sliced through the flesh, careful to go the right depth -- too shallow, and the crystals could not take; too deep, and he would bleed to death. 

Shivers wracked his body despite the heat of the room and knife, and his hand trembled, but he pushed forward and dragged the knife further, until the cut was long enough. He tossed the knife back to the table, careless, and scooped up one of the crystals. 

It pulsed in his fingers, flickering pink as he smeared blood across its surface before the aqua color flooded back in, brighter than before. Caleb sucked down a deep breath. Pressed the crystal to the cut. Pushed it in. 

_ Oh.  _

He didn’t forget much, but even his mind could hold back the dulling nature of time and, in the decade and a half since that last crystal had been pressed into his flesh, he’d forgotten. It had barely touched the gaps of the cut before it burst to life, rippling with color and light, almost white with the energy burning off it. Glowing tendrils arced out of it and latched into his skin, sending pain searing up his arm as the crystal pulled itself into its home amongst the blood and muscle. 

Caleb clutched at his wrist, knuckles bone-white as he held on and waited as the crystal nestled itself in place, and pulsed pink once more. The skin around it healed, knitting back together until the crystal was locked in place, fused into the skin until it expended itself and melted into his flesh. The pain faded, leaving behind the memory of an ache and the foreign-but-familiar sensation of the crystal in his arm, and the pulse of fresh power. 

Caleb smiled weakly.  _ Nine more to go.  _ Five for each arm, each bigger than the last. He took the knife back into his hand and held it up. Fresh blood lay on the blade, sitting slick in the candlelight. He stilled. 

_ What are you doing, Widogast?  _

Hoping, praying that a spell like this could exist? Could be true? Wish was a story for children, a whispered rumor amongst wizards and witches and all who delved into the world of magic. But all the literature he had found, everything he’d  _ done.  _ The knife shifted and he blinked, refocused on it. A reflection stared back at him from just above, a man with yellowing skin and long, silver-white hair, bald on top -- Trent. A shift of the blade, a flicker of candlelight, and the face changed to a young man who was closer to  _ boy _ than anything, with short copper hair and blue eyes filled with determination.

_ “Once you take this step, you can never return. You can never back out. It will be too late.” _

_ “I understand.” _

_ “Are you ready, Bren?” _

_ “I am.” _

_ “Then let us begin.” _

_ You’ve come too far, Widogast. Do it.  _ Caleb sucked down a deep breath and pressed the knife back to his arm. This slice of his arm was much quicker, memories of doing the same to Astrid and Eodwulf rising and echoing in his mind, behind every stroke of the knife. He dug the second crystal in. He couldn’t help but grunt as the crystal lashed itself in, harsher, hungrier than the one before, as a new wave of power surged through his veins. It tasted bitter, and he wanted--  _ needed _ more. 

The third crystal was against his skin before the cut around the second was even done healing. They’d started to pulse to the beating of his heart, a subtle flush of pink to tinge the white-aqua that filled them. Caleb’s tongue was dry, and stuck to the roof of his mouth as he dragged the knife across his skin, spilling more blood across the ground. 

By the fifth crystal he could hardly feel the bite of the blade through the fire in his arm, ablaze with radiant energy as the crystals settled into their home, pushing raw magical power through his veins. He could hear the drum of his heart in his ears as he stared at his arm. The skin had started to discolor from the lack of fresh blood and the spilling of more. His fingertips had gone numb. 

Yet it felt like he could feel every part of his arm, down to those tiny details too small for the human eye, too small to know, to even imagine. Caleb took the cord and slowly, a little clumsier than before, began to untie it. It fell to the floor, forgotten, and he held his arm out, watched blankly as the color and feeling returned, as the bitter taste in his mouth grew. 

_ “It is too late to turn back, Bren. You cannot falter. You cannot hesitate. If you do, you die. And I would hate for my most prized pupil to die here, when you’ve accomplished nothing.” _

He tied his other arm off. 

The first stroke of the knife was clumsy, but it got the job done -- it had been some time since he’d used his left hand in such ways. But the crystals didn’t care. They only tasted blood and buried themselves, seeking more and more. He paused as the second one latched on, blinking at the wave of energy that surged through him, sharp and bitter. 

Dizzied, he swayed, leaned into the desk. He hunched over and stared into the crystal, this one hardly two inches across. It glowed back, a beautiful, intoxicating aqua. And hunger swelled within him. 

Caleb shoved himself back up and slashed at his arm, laying three cuts into the flesh. He scooped up the crystals and pushed them in, one after another, using the butt of the knife to press them deeper. Their tendrils flicked out and burrowed into his skin, lighting his veins up with a glowing blue as they buried themselves in. Raw energy slammed into him and he staggered back, found the wall to his back. 

Distantly, he felt the knife slip through his fingers. Heard it clatter to the floor. Everything was abruptly far off, and only bitterness on his tongue and the way every fiber of his body was there, the world narrowed down to a fragment of reality. To himself. And only this made sense. The power. The  _ ability.  _

_ I have it. I have everything.  _ He could do anything with the raw magic that coursed through his veins.  _ Anything _ was possible. Caleb held power potent enough to equal the gods, to bring the world to its knees. He could rend open reality and appear before Ikithon. He could make the man bend, make him  _ beg _ for mercy. He could end wars with a wave of his hand, could bring the land back to life with a breath, could-- 

_ What about Mollymauk? _

Caleb’s eyes snapped open, found a chair leg before him. He was sprawled on the ground, Frumpkin sat atop his hip and purring away. The taste in his mouth had soured. His hands trembled as he pushed himself to his knees. Turned his arms over to stare at the crystals, which had quieted to a faint blue glow, waiting to be used. 

“Mollymauk…” he croaked. He’d nearly forgotten in all that rush. Forgotten about Mollymauk Tealeaf, the shining circus man. His eyes prickled with tears, but Caleb swallowed them down. Straightened his back. Rose to his feet. Upright, he felt steadier, and he braced himself against the desk. Looked back to his spellbook, and the words etched into them. 

_ You can do this. You’ve done this a thousand times.  _

Well, in some regards. But it made no difference. He was ready, with crystals buried in his arm, the spell before him, and Molly waiting. The need to pour over the spellbook once more filled him -- the what-if’s of all that could go wrong burned through his head. But he had stalled long enough. And so Caleb began it. 

The chant was strange on his tongue, the language one so rare that it only existed in those seven musty tomes he’d found. But he’d felt the power in them when he’d brushed his fingers across them, and now, with the words falling off his lips and tongue, he could taste it. It had a sweetness, like a promise of all things good. A sweetness to lure him in and keep him Wishing and Wishing and Wishing until there was nothing left. 

And oh, by the Archheart, did he want to, with currents of power racing through his veins and words of power on his tongue. 

But he closed his eyes and continued to chant, one word at a time, curling his tongue around sweet-tasting syllables and grasping the magic tight into his fingers as he grasped the image of Molly within his heart and pulled it to the surface. Mollymauk, sweet, beautiful Mollymauk, who had shone too bright and burned out too quickly. Mollymauk, who he hadn’t seen in three long years. Mollymauk, who would get his Wish, and not his parents. 

He could still feel the texture of Molly’s hair beneath his fingers, silken from all the care he put into it, and perpetually smelling faintly of rosewater. Every night before bed and every morning over breakfast he’d brushed it out and run oils through it, taking far longer than Caleb could have ever imagined someone could take on their hair. Well, his mother excluded, but even then she had only done so on the harvest festivals. 

And his nails -- Molly had kept his pointer and middle fingers of his left hand blunted, the others filed to sharp tips. Fjord had coughed when he’d realized just  _ why _ Molly had them cut so. And his coat, rich and dripping in colors, a riot in every thread and fabric stitched together to make it. His cards, with the serpent, the fool, the star. Molly had pulled the fire for him once, and he’d smiled so brightly, the diamonds embedded in his teeth glittering in the light of the fire and the moon. 

_ “The Fire, Mr. Widogast -- that’s a rather good omen.”  _

_ “I find that hard to believe, Mr. Mollymauk.”  _

_ “Well you see, fire is something of destruction, yes. But it is also of life and rebirth. Yasha tells me that some forests need fires in order to clear out the old and allow the seeds of the new to break free and settle into the ground. Don’t you think that’s a good omen?” _

Caleb’s eyes flicked to the edge of the desk, where Molly’s tarot deck lay. The Fire sat on top. A beautiful card, with a person in the center and flames licking the card around them, half of their body charred to the bone, the other half whole and beautiful. 

Caleb smiled. 

Closed his eyes. Let the last words of the ancient language of the spell pass his lips. The silence that rang out after was deafening. Full of possibility. 

_ This is your last chance, Widogast. You could bring your parents back. The whole reason you started down this path, the whole reason you wanted to bend reality to your will.  _

He casted his thoughts to them -- his mother, his father, and their little Frumpkin. Blurs in his mind, not even half-remembered.  _ I’m sorry, mama, papa.  _

“My Wish is for Mollymauk Tealeaf to rise and walk the earth once more. To remember all from the life he lived with us and to find our friends once more, and to live a long life as he should have.” 

The air stilled. Everything seemed to freeze. A percussive blast burst through the room and Caleb stumbled backwards. Hit the wall. Smiled as a blistering warmth burst to life in his chest.  _ “Darling…” _ he whispered.

Two things happened simultaneously: a lavender tiefling in a bloody shirt but very much alive collapsed on the steps of the Mighty Nein’s abode; Caleb Widogast crumpled to the ground, burned craters in his arms where the crystals had been, everything still, and a smile on his lips.

**Author's Note:**

> HMU @ fairylights101writes on tumblr!


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